Two Sides of the Same Coin, Ch 1 – Something's Missing
AN: The dagger is based off of an Indian artifact from 18th century AD, just an interesting hobby of mine
Nacre = mother of pearl
You know, a good Purification might be just what this Sanctuary needs.
The voice of Lucien Lachance, Synclaire's spectral advisor, echoed in her mind. That was his usual haunt since something somewhere bound him from physically – rather, metaphysically – coming to see her. The words came to her in a dream and she couldn't agree more. He lived during a time when the Dark Brotherhood thrived. The rivers of blood that flowed from the sanctuaries all around Tamriel were vastly more impressive than now – blood merely trickled from their door. It was humiliating, and the Speaker's ghost could see the wrongness of their all but aborted guild through her eyes. The dissatisfaction manifested within her.
Their 'family' was close enough. There was no love among them; except of course Arnbjorn loved Astrid and Astrid loved having a doting husband. She bore no true love for anything but herself, her husband was no exception. Syn often wondered what would happen when his shroud of blindness was removed and he saw what went on between her and that thief in Riften. The big bad wolf would probably crush quite a few heads if he knew he was sharing his favorite morsel.
The husband, Syn was fond of, as well as the Redguard and the Argonian. The others, she could take or leave – Babette and Astrid being the ones she would leave. Especially Astrid. It was her 'business sense' that Syn blamed for the atrocious new way of leading the Dark Brotherhood – less based on the will of the Night Mother and more about Astrid's own glory. She made them a hollow shell of what they used to be, of what they could be. Syn knew things wouldn't change. Not while Astrid led.
The harlot was a bird of prey; her talons were latched into her position. Astrid was a force to be reckoned with, no doubt about it. The dark mistress led them well enough considering the less ambitious path they were on. The others admired her, even when they see her give into her paranoia and arrogance, they just think of how that makes her even more perfect for the job. Nazir even admitted he 'worships the ground she walks on.' Syn snorted aloud at that thought. From where she sat near the grindstone Arnbjorn was working at, it was unmistakable. It caught Arnbjorn's attention.
"Got some moon sugar or something in that tiny nose of yours, kitty?" Kitty, he always called her – small, cute, and of course inferior. The last part was key ever since he noticed her disregard for something Astrid said years ago. The damn dog was unforgiving, not that his vigilance would have lessened if he knew what she truly thought. She didn't realize she was still watching him as she mentally ranted. "Stop staring, I'm taken."
"And what a miracle that is," Syn drawled, "considering what a smelly brute you are. Those boring nine Divines must exist after all." Her amber eyes gleamed as she waited for the familiar crabbiness to flare. He exhaled a snort only a werewolf could make.
"That's because I'm a real man. You prefer melons and a kitty, kitty? I've never heard about you taking a man to bed. Even Gabriella has made a black widow of herself several times over and that's just since you've been here." Syn arched a brow. She didn't want to discuss such matters, and she especially didn't want to hear about Gabriella's excursions.
"Has anyone ever told you that you have the conversational skills of a horker?" The change of subject caught him off guard more than the odd insult did. After a few seconds of silence he laughed.
"Nope, you're the first. Now go away before you say something that really pisses me off." He pulled the blade back from the grindstone, holding it up so the firelight behind him could catch the edge of it. After inspecting its sharpness with eye and thumb, he stood and turned his back to her. A clear dismissal.
Syn shrugged, used to his gruff manner. She stood from her spot on the ground, wiping dirt from her shrouded leathers and idly brushing her hair away from her face. Before she took a step toward the living quarters, Astrid descended the steps that led to the exit of the sanctuary and called to them.
"Husband, come – I need your brawn. Syn, would you be a dear and call everyone else to gather here? The Keeper has come." It was unusual for Astrid to be so brief, she loved to hear herself talk. Arnbjorn grumbled about having to pull some weight for her, but his larger than usual strides to her gave away his unwavering obedience. Syn walked the opposite direction as he, wondering about this 'Keeper.' She was unaware that there was even another member yet living elsewhere. Her boots stomped stray nightshade petals by the small pool before she climbed the half dozen stairs to the rest of their home.
She found none of her brothers or sisters in the living quarters, which didn't surprise her; the beds were usually not occupied this time of day. Though there was little to do in the Sanctuary, they somehow managed to keep themselves entertained. Below the living quarters, her brothers were gathered. Nazir was sitting at the dining table, which Syn always thought of as out of place since it was one of the few things down there that wasn't small and moldy. The Redguard had his feet propped up beside his empty platter and was popping jazbay grapes in his mouth. Veezara sat on the far bench, he could see Syn above Festus – the mage was standing at the foot of the ramp that led to the living quarters, fussing about Sithis knows what. The Argonian was about to acknowledge Syn, but she put her finger to her lips in a command for his silence. A mischievous smile played on her lips, which always meant hilarity was about to ensue – usually at someone's expense.
Syn crouched at the edge of the precipice above Festus, shifting her position so she didn't end up landing on the old geezer. His spells were strong, but his body was not. With careful calculation, while the mage ranted about the affects of jazbay grapes on one's magic – a caution that affected the Redguard in no way whatsoever – Syn hopped down, feet clapping loudly on the stones immediately behind Festus, and hands slapping his shoulders enough to generate even more sound.
In shock, he gasped. The half loaf of bread in the mage's had was engulfed in flame, the inhale was spent on a raspy yell that was laced thickly with anger and surprise. He whirled with the burnt loaf being crushed in his fist. She sniffed appreciatively at it while the other two men howled with laughter. "I love the smell of burnt bread in the morning." Her eyes were closed; a sweet, satisfied smile was on her face.
"You stupid little skeever!" Festus threw the ruined food on the ground between them. The wrinkles around his mouth deepened with his frown.
"Dear festering Festus, you know I mean no disrespect. But I expected you to have more control than that," she teased. It was good he had as much control as he did; he was frightful when he used his spells. He was working on one that turned the victim inside out. Not quite perfected, but he had allowed Syn to be present for one of his attempts. The victim's stomach turned – literally. From jaw down his skin flipped, bringing much of his insides out. What was exposed slid down from inside his tunic and piled into a heap of pink and bloody flesh. The sight had left Syn not wanting to eat for the remainder of that day, she clearly had much more of a conscience than several of her family members. While the rest had been green with envy, she was green with sickness over the sight.
"Watch your mouth, there's no tenet against setting your hair on fire." She bit her lip and rolled her eyes in an innocent show of reluctant acquiescence.
Syn and Festus were the only ones that still followed the tenets. Astrid's only rule was 'respect your family' which meant she could do anything she damn well pleased. Their mistress had no faith in tradition since it did not stop their downfall. Perhaps that was the case – that the strict tenets were to blame. Perhaps it was poor leadership. Syn found the latter more likely, and the trend continued.
Nazir was still chuckling through a mouthful of grapes. "You must be bored to test the crotchety old wizard that way." With his deep voice, everything he said was booming. Gabriella and Babette came from the room beyond, likely to investigate the yelling and laughter.
"Not bored," Syn clarified. "Astrid sent me to fetch everyone. The Keeper has arrived." She cocked her head for them to follow and led the way back to the body of their Sanctuary. By that time Arnbjorn was also coming back in as a beast. He was carrying a large cylindrical sarcophagus, dark grey with ribs in relief around the circumference. On the top was a grotesque, gaping woman's head that resembled a draugr. The face was framed in a ritualistic headdress. Arnbjorn unceremoniously dumped the sarcophagus on the ground by the small pool. The jester that followed him wailed and flailed.
"Oh, careful with the Night Mother now! She's not as fresh as she used to be. Ha ha ha! Don't slam the coffin down like that, defiler!" Arnbjorn turned back into man. The magical qualities of the Dark Brotherhood armor caused it not to be shredded by his expanding form, which was something he had once recalled aloud that Companion armor didn't do. Once they transformed and reverted, they were exposed. After one hunt with his former shield-brothers, he punched one in the face for coming too near him with his 'equipment' swinging freely. It was this sort of temper and disregard for the honor that drove the Companions that caused the man to leave, taking his gift from Hircine with him.
"I'll defile you, you ugly mudcrab, if you don't shut your face," he growled. The jester inhaled to give a sassy retort.
"Settle down, both of you," Astrid commanded. The rest had gathered around, eyeing the sarcophagus and jester. "Brothers and Sisters," she turned to them with a sultry sway. Syn wrinkled her nose. Everything that woman did reeked of forced seduction. "Allow me to introduce Cicero, Keeper of the Night Mother."
Festus was the first to gush a welcome. "Mister Cicero! We are honored to have you and the Night Mother come to our Sanctuary." His display was over the top, as much as the jester's entire persona.
"Why thank you, kind wizard! The Night Mother thanks you for your hospitality, too!"
Astrid took over with her usual purr. "You are welcome here, as is the Night Mother. But know this: I am the leader of this Sanctuary. My word is law." Her cold tone took on more force as she followed her habit of stamping her claim on anything that entered.
"Oh, yes mistress. You're the boss!" The jester seemed unfazed by her antics. With that, the welcome was concluded and everyone dispersed. Syn didn't move, her head was cocked as she studied the coffin. Astrid's approach stole her attention when the mistress spoke.
"Sister, when you have the time come see me. A contract awaits." Astrid turned, gliding back to her usual perch that she claimed as a study, between the chamber and exit. With a final glance to the Night Mother's coffin, Syn followed. Astrid leaned against the table where a map was rolled out. A dagger stuck from the parchment where Astrid claimed her last kill. It had not moved in weeks.
"Your contact is in Whiterun. I understand a lover of hers was slain by the Companions, she wants one of them eliminated. The Companions are no easy prey, sister. They are a brutal force, but except for the Harbinger they overall lack in intelligence. I have no doubt you can eliminate the target swiftly. Stealth is not in their vocabulary." Her arms were crossed against her breasts, she was all business.
"They have a rather limited vocabulary," Syn jested. If there was any redeeming quality of Astrid's it was her sense of humor. They shared a fair amount of laughs with their dry, mocking ways.
Astrid tittered. "Indeed. Go, child. Kill well." Syn left her mistress to pack. Once in the living quarters, she flopped on her bed, opening the chest she had turned around so she could lazily roll and retrieve her items while still reclining under the pelts. She pulled her leather armor from the chest, as well as her green cloak, waterskin, and dagger. The last was the only object she still had from her life in Cyrodiil. It was, after all, part of the reason she had to run – the weapon she used for her first kill.
The blade was steel and its handle made of ivory. The ivory was inlaid with shards of nacre, small garnets, and emeralds surrounded by gold in a design that resembled small flowers. It was a family heirloom that belonged to her neighbor in Bruma before she died, and was an item Syn always envied. Upon the woman's death, the dagger was buried with her in the chapel undercroft. The night after the burial, Syn snuck in to steal the dagger from her tomb and was caught by one of the priests on her way out. Without thinking, she had plunged the dagger into the priest's chest. Had she not, her family would have discovered she was a grave robber, but then she was a murderer. She fled north to Skyrim with nothing but the clothes on her back, the small amount of coin the priest had, and of course the dagger.
She regretted little and was glad her life had taken an adventurous turn, but she always wondered what became of her family and what they assumed her fate was. Her running away could not have been predicted; beside brief periods of boredom she was happy there. Her parents were loving and her younger twin siblings were all the friends she needed.
Veezara's approach distracted her from her thoughts of the past. He saw her leathers and cloak laid out on the bed beside her as she toyed with the dagger with a look that was far from the present. "I don't know of anyone else that changes out of their shrouded armor when they kill. It is what our armor is for."
Syn stood from the bed, removing the standard issue armor. Veezara didn't turn from her as she changed, he knew she wore a thin, light tunic beneath and wasn't shy about being seen in her smalls. She tossed her armor beside the leathers and began to don her cuirass. "Sure, when our targets lurk in shadows, not in a hold capital. If I wore it now, it would be rather conspicuous."
"Oh, fine, fine. Do it your way. It has worked for you thus far, has it not?" The Argonian was leaning against the wardrobe beside her bed. Her leather trousers, gloves, and boots were on; she was finishing her look by strapping her quiver in place against her back and sheathing her dagger at her belt. She adjusted her cloak so it didn't cover her arrows and she could carry her hunting bow over her shoulder.
"It certainly has. Goodbye for now, brother. I'm off to spill some blood."
"Kill well, sister." Veezara went back to the dining area while Syn headed for the exit.
On the way, she passed Cicero. The jester was oiling the Night Mother, humming a tune. She paused before she ascended the stairs to the tunnel leading out, turning to view the corpse. The Night Mother was wrapped in a black robe; a worn rope tightly bound the cloth that hugged the sharp angles of her shriveled body. Her head was bent at an extreme angle, shoulder touching where her ear once was before it rotted off, only a ridge of cartilage still jutted from the bone. Her arms were crossed along her body, one hand over her heart, the other at her hip.
Cicero was rubbing oil into her arms. His hum raised to an ear-piercing pitch when he stopped abruptly, the ear of his goofy hat pricked with the cock of his head when he noticed someone near him. When he caught sight of Syn, he grinned.
"Oh! Hello, sister! I don't believe we've met. Cicero, Keeper of the Night Mother, at your service." He outstretched an oily hand with a gleeful, daring stare. She smiled and shook his hand.
"Hello Cicero, I am Synclaire. Though in the family, it's just Syn." When they released each other's hands, she rubbed the oil into her glove, frowning when she realized it held the smell of stale putrefaction. Her current attire was reserved for cleaner interactions. "I understand you brought her from Bravil?"
"Oh, yes. The entire town, including the crypt of our dear mother was desecrated in the battles. But Cicero took her from there, brought her to a new home!" The way he referred to himself made everything sound like praise.
"A shame she's little more than a relic nowadays."
"How the mighty have crumbled," he muttered ominously. His dark mood passed like a shadow. "But! Now that she is here they cannot deny the worth of our Unholy Matron! Surely you understand, hmm?"
"I'd like to think so," she shrugged. "But I'd best get going. So many kills, so little time."
"Oh, a contract for my dear sister Syn! Whom shall you slay?"
"One of the Companions, I'm told." She honestly hoped it wasn't one of the members of the Circle. There weren't enough beasts in Skyrim, and the bestial nature of a man cursed with lycanthropy had a certain allure – Arnbjorn was on the verge of being an exception, his muscular physique was what saved him from being all around unpleasant.
"In Whiterun! By the Skyforge! The forger of Skyforge steel – poor Cicero doesn't have a Skyforge steel dagger yet," the jester pouted.
"Perhaps you shall, they're not terribly expensive. Are you particular about it having been used? If the Companion has one, I doubt they'll be using it after I'm done with them." She ended her suggestion on a particularly wicked note. If the Night Mother can hear her, she might even be proud.
"A kill trophy for Cicero? Sister, I would be most grateful." It was hard to distinguish whether or not he actually got more excited about the offer. He was a nudge away from bursting into song and dance as it was.
"Then I'd better begin my hunt. See you around, Keeper." She began walking away before his lunacy began to rub off. He was amusing in very small doses. Behind her he returned to his ministrations over the Night Mother, chatting animatedly to himself.
"I can't wait! I can be like the Butcher of Windhelm, like 'stab stab stab stab stab' and then 'stab stab stab stab!'"
Before Syn was out of earshot, a chilling call sounded behind her, hissing her name into the dank chamber of their Sanctuary.
Synclaiiiire…
Syn slowly turned back, looking around the cavern in confusion and shock. The whisper was not dissimilar from the black door when she heard the unforgettable question it asked her upon her first arrival over ten years ago, though what she just heard was distinctly female. With no call following it, Syn had nothing more to go by. She could do nothing but head toward Whiterun. She approached the black door with her brows still furrowed, thoroughly distracted from the hunt.
She emerged into the lush green forest of Falkreath hold. Out there, she blended in perfectly in the disguise of a ranger. The shades she wore matched the bark and leaves, while her amber eyes were like drops of sap. The road was above her, a few steps up the hill and she would follow the path to Whiterun.
But the chill from the Sanctuary still clung to her bones, piercing straight through the armor and cloak she wore. The call she heard was haunting.
What in Oblivion was that?